


A Circus May Be Nothing But A Rhyme

by GayNoctis



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Broadway, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Drag Queens, Drama & Romance, Eventual Romance, First Meetings, Gay Bar, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Musicals, New York City, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Ryan Ross, Relationship(s), Slow Build, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 19:02:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7813504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GayNoctis/pseuds/GayNoctis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in Broadway, New York. The year is 1925, Ryan Ross a seventeen year old poet, with his arrogant personality and obvious annoyance towards the people in the city, the plan of setting his dream of performing in one of the few theaters on Broadway is sticking around. Debatable personal affairs happen, tension towards issues of Ryan's goal, love slowly comes just as soon as it goes. The battle between musicals eventually arises, between Panic! At The Disco, My Chemical Romance, and Fall Out Boy. The Pansy Craze, has begun and it slowly drags spectators, curiosity wanders around at this event.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Circus May Be Nothing But A Rhyme

**Author's Note:**

> Will plan to update on Fridays/Saturdays.

It seems farfetched to my eyes, a dream, a strained idea. The city of new york is loud and full of life, in a peculiar way it’s also silent, I am aware of my own naivety of my words. I can’t grasp this want, a need of something new and odd. But it’s there, I see it, the harmony of their voices surprises me, I sigh out heavily.

There is a voice in the back of my mind, it hints of my insecurities; uselessly wanting, slowly fading, a crack in that mirror in contrast to the voice in the theatre. I am lost without even doing a thing, quite, indifferent to my own foolish desire to be seen. For once, I thought, when will I strike up the scene with my own words?

I write a small letter of my own misguided, empty, simple thoughts, meaningless to my mind. I snap my fingers, digging through my velvet coat, see the small crumbled letter of an old friend. Spencer Smith, a wise man to be acquainted with, though his sense of humor is harmless yet can be misunderstood, by the eyes of the slow crowd’s that is. The cursive writing of his is sloppy, faded from the times I’ve reread this old paper, a million or so I think. It doesn’t matter when it’s my last hope to finally, most importantly, achieving my dream; dancing on the stage, the bright lights of the theatre on my skin, sweat against my cheeks and the make up stands out, my words being sung by someone who can reach the stars. Not me, of course, I am far too monotonous for that kind of job. But, in fact, a person who has that kind of voice may either be arrogant or too young, a death wish for my own words is to give it to an unwise man of his words.

I grip the crumbled, torn, paper. So much for Smith’s own words, he can only meet once a week? A pity. A man with his talent for acting, theatrical dancing is far worried about silly trades in stock, pathetic. I look around in this empty cafe, the sun is going down, the people come and go. Intriguingly, I watch a woman in a bright red dress that fits her so well, smile towards me just as she walks by the cafe window. I can tell you, she isn’t as bright as she thinks, her smile a mere mask of her happiness.

I reread his words: “Ryan, you may consider me a fool, yes I may be but as I do these trades I sense my dreams getting blown and torn. And, please do write me a new story, I’d be glad to act it out with a friend or two! Sincerely, your friend Spencer, who’s too charming for any woman.” I grab my cup of coffee, taking a sip of the warm liquid, I chuckle at Spencer’s remarks. He’s doing well, but he knows it too, the false hope we do to give up our dreams. I, on the other hand will not do as he has, an idiotic choice he made will be repented in a day.

Oh, Spencer, how many chances are you willing to take to bring this musical of ours to life? We are only seventeen yet we’re doing things that no adolescent should be doing, stock markets are unwise to do at a young age. I always wonder what made him so fond of losing his money, at times gaining it, pretty odd to think of.

I set the torn old paper back into my coat, the pockets fitting it perfectly and lightly. I can’t help but laugh a bit, as I hold my cup and look back at the passersby. They’re all so mediocre, playing house and simple marriages, mediocrity at its finest. I laugh softly, “What kind of croissants do you serve?” I ask the server, I glance at her tag, ah, Sarah. Sarah it is.

* * *

 Sarah smiles, she opens up the black list she held, her pale hands that shook a second or so. Sarah points out, gazes at me with her sincere blue sea eyes. “We have raspberry, with a soft cream on top, or a strawberry filled one that may come with simple frosting on top. Choose any, that is to your liking, young man.”

She knows what she’s doing, that’s amazing to me, not many can show confidence in these small workplaces that degrade their coworkers often. I smile at her, I can’t help but feel a bit jealous of how confident she is.

I ask, “May I get the second option you said, I’m a bit tired as you can tell, parents are tiresome aren’t they?” She laughs, it’s bright and genuinely soft to the ears. I wonder how she can stand being in this system of who’ll be kind today, who’ll be rude and ill the next? Amazingly, she must be a strong woman, I think to myself. Her soft porcelain skin catches my eyes, her curly brown hair shines in the sunset against the window, it’s odd how we can see such traits.

Sarah nods, “I’ll get what you asked, parents may be tiresome but I believe they want what is best for us.” Ah, I can’t believe such women exist, naive and soft like a cloud drifting in the sky. I nod and I thank her for her service, she smiles again. Simply because my own manners, weren’t distorted as the rest of the men in this world. Though, I am only a teenager, so how could I know?

I turn away from watching the cafe, I look at my blank pages I should have wrote in. Blank, I can’t seem to write when my thoughts are wandering, dreams of my own ideas drift away. I may as well call Spencer, or he’ll be distraught that I never wrote back to his silly excuse of a letter. 3 days late, I would be, but not when you have a phone that can ease the pain of writing and sending.

I tap my feet against the wood floor, I think of the musicals that My Chemical Romance has put out, Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge was it? Yes, my inspiration to a fever that I can’t sweat out. And it’s drying my throat already with how much I want that place in my own hands, a stage, music and dancing, something to rush my young veins.

So, Sarah brings me the sweet croissant, smiles away, swaying a bit just as I take a bite in this delicious desert. There’s something about this fever, it’s full of desire, want, a sense of purpose in this bland city of mediocrity.

I take a bite, the taste is sweet and crisp, warm and dripping with sweetness, awful lot to take in when your mouth is already sweet as it is. It takes the bitterness of the coffee away, I breathe out in awe, I can enjoy something small once in awhile.

So, I take my things and brisk out of the cafe I was once in. I look back and see Sarah cleaning where I once stood, I wonder why she stays in the palace of meaningless moments. I shake that thought away, pace out towards the busy filled crowds of each person waiting for a cab, a drag in this midnight crowd.


End file.
